


A Waste of an Evening

by Oilan



Series: Cette Verve de Jeunesse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Dancing, M/M, Play Fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Trapped together, Courfeyrac and Grantaire stave off boredom--nothing deeper than that.





	A Waste of an Evening

“Good god! I thought we were going to a safe house, not into the depths of oblivion,” Grantaire scoffed, not bothering to keep his voice low. “I cannot come to terms with the idea of Enjolras establishing a refuge in this dank and dingy place; the lack of symbolism is appalling. I’d rather be caught by the police than face a revelation of this nature-“

“We _will_ be caught if you don’t hush!” His cane tucked under his arm to avoid knocking it into anything and creating unwanted noise, Courfeyrac skirted around a corner and down a narrower alleyway, the darkness of the night and the close press of buildings sufficient to conceal the pair for a short while. It was truly a shame that their night had taken this sort of turn, but despite their precarious circumstances, he added in an undertone, “And if you give yourself but a minute, I’m sure you’ll be able to contrive some sort of imagery to suit your _fastidiously poetic worldview.”_

“Hah!” Grantaire managed to reduce the volume of his voice by a hair. “Do not accost me with your sarcasm. For all you know, I may keep a notebook of my own verses—so beautiful they would make Prouvaire apoplectic with envy! And after what I witnessed tonight, what _do_ you know, anyway?”

Courfeyrac pretended to be too busy searching for the right address to answer that question. A meeting with another nascent republican group had backfired utterly, the group having put its trust into a too-suspecting proprietor. The police had been notified and they had all been forced to scatter before any officers had arrived. Though he was reasonably certain they had all made it out unscathed, it was prudent to take precautions; Courfeyrac had thought he had seen someone unknown duck around a corner as he had looked over his shoulder whilst escaping. Luckily, Enjolras had had the forethought to begin establishing safe houses and temporary hideaways throughout the Latin Quarter for just such a scenario, and Courfeyrac knew the location of the closest one.

If they were being tailed, it was fortunate Courfeyrac was so light on his feet despite his height; he made almost no noise as he led Grantaire through the Latin Quarter’s more deserted areas. As though unbothered by their situation, his companion made no effort to remain secretive nor to make haste. Grantaire trudged along as usual, his own walking stick almost dragging across the ground, his heavy stride finally splashing up a puddle of refuse onto his trouser leg. He grimaced.

“Courfeyrac, are you _sure_ we’ve been followed?”

“Yes! Come here.” They were halfway down the alley now, and Courfeyrac turned sharply, racing through a small archway and down some narrow stairs, flinging open the door at the bottom which, though old, thankfully did not creak. Grantaire followed at a slightly quickened pace and no sooner had Courfeyrac shut and locked the door behind them, they heard clipped footsteps walking through the street they had just left behind.

Courfeyrac pressed his ear to the door to listen intently, though his heart was pounding loudly. Shockingly enough, Grantaire had fallen silent at his side, brow furrowed. The footsteps grew louder and then halted right at the top of their little staircase, pausing as though the person who made them was listening as well. After a tense moment, during which the hidden pair did not even dare to breathe, the footsteps started up again, passing them by and growing fainter. Courfeyrac sighed in relief.

“That was much too narrow an escape!”

“Escape!” Grantaire had turned his back on Courfeyrac and busied himself with lighting a rusty lamp, which had been set aside on an old crate, and taking in their surroundings. This particular safe house was nothing more than an old cellar, which had once been used as storage space for the shop above it but was now abandoned, the shop having gone out of business. Crates and boxes which had been left behind stood here and there, cobwebs adorned every corner, and all was covered in a fine layer of dust. Even the air seemed musty, almost heavy and difficult to breathe. Grantaire surveyed all of it and beneath his moustache his mouth twisted in an expression of supreme dissatisfaction.

“It seems we have just replaced the potential for one cell with the reality of another. Remind me to avoid all future meetings with your so-called allies. Fools, more like! A waste of your time and mine, for all the good it did you to meet with them.”

“I have the notion that you would have thought as much whether we had had to run or not,” Courfeyrac said, crossing his arms. “Why did you even volunteer to come along?”

A fleeting expression crossed Grantaire’s face, but before Courfeyrac could make too much of it, Grantaire gave a lopsided smile and said, “Well, why else would one go to an unfamiliar café but to try the wine, sample the menu, and see if the women there are worth a second glance? How do you think, Friend Courfeyrac, I am so familiar with so many favorable locations? One must not deny oneself any opportunities for enjoyment.”

“ _Hedonism_ , you mean.” Courfeyrac frowned. “You are familiar with our meetings and with our allies; you know very well they are not like that. Enjolras would never abide by _that_ amount of intemperance. _You_ might instead have gone to one of your more familiar haunts, where you would have been _assured_ of a night of your own style of enjoyment.”

“I _could_ have done so and I _could_ be doing so now, if not for that novice group!” Grantaire’s grin faltered slightly, but he gave a shrug as though unconcerned. “Instead I am stuck here. Who knows when we will be able to leave without the threat of prison looming over us. And without a scrap of food nor—more tragically, I might add—a drop of wine to occupy us while we wait.”

“It is not as though this is _my_ idea of a pleasant evening!” Though he had the notion that much of Grantaire’s ire was exaggerated, and therefore not to be taken seriously, Courfeyrac resisted the urge to throw up his hands in exasperation. Instead, he leaned against the hardwood door, resigned. The same clipped footstep once again could be heard crossing the street outside, coming down from the opposite direction, though they did not stop this time. Unfortunately, Grantaire was correct; they could be trapped here for quite a while. He sighed; there was no use in being irritated.

“Well, we have to pass the time somehow, I suppose. Since your evening is apparently ruined, what would _you_ suggest we do?”

 

* * *

 

“Aha!” With one swift movement, Grantaire delivered a sharp whack to Courfeyrac’s thigh with his cane. “A palpable hit!”

“One that shall not be repeated!” Courfeyrac said, taking advantage of Grantaire’s celebration to aim a swipe of his own walking stick at his opponent’s arm. Grantaire, nearly catching his foot in folded pile of their discarded coats and waistcoats, deflected the blow just in time, grinning.

“Ah, you were very nearly _close_ that time. Perhaps if you take a few more tries at me, you’ll be able to land _one_ hit! If luck is on your side, that is.”

“I have always considered myself very lucky,” Courfeyrac replied, leaping up on a crate with what was, in his opinion, an admirable amount of dash and daring. The wooden box creaked beneath his weight, but he ignored it in favor of gloating. “I have the high ground now, my friend! Would you care to surrender immediately, or continue to fight despite any hope of defeating me?”

Still smiling, Grantaire placed a foot on the box and gave it one powerful shove. Trying to keep his footing, Courfeyrac wobbled atop it; in the next moment, he found himself sprawled on the ground as the wood cracked and the crate collapsed under him with a loud crash. From the look of shock that crossed Grantaire’s face, it was clear he had merely meant to unbalance Courfeyrac rather than knock him down completely. He started forward to help him up but Courfeyrac, uninjured, bounced to his feet once more and with a deftly executed _passata sotto_ delivered a hit to Grantaire at last.

Grantaire’s expression cleared and he let out a dry laugh. “ _De Courfeyrac_ , I think you are trying to turn this into a fencing match, not canne de combat!” 

Playing at affront, Courfeyrac clutched heart as though mortally wounded, steadying his stance—one much more similar to that used in fencing, it was true—and waved his cane threateningly. “Is knocking me to the ground not enough for you? If you assault me with that particle again, I shall fight back in quite a different way!”

“Ah, do not blame me if your aristocratic sensibilities cannot help but ooze out,” said Grantaire with an air of mock innocence, dodging Courfeyrac’s playful retaliatory swipe. “No doubt you spent your childhood daydreaming of swashbuckling adventures, of rescuing fair maidens and sweeping them off their feet in a grand, chivalrous romance!”

“I suppose I cannot deny that last bit,” Courfeyrac answered, quickly sidestepping the splintered remains of the crate before parrying Grantaire’s next attack, which made his friend laugh again.

“You are only proving me correct about _all_ of it! You are clearly more versed in the dueling of the higher classes than the fighting styles of the People. What will Enjolras say when he finds out?”

With that, Courfeyrac feinted one way and managed another hit to Grantaire’s chest, though he was loath to admit to himself that the move much more resembled a compound attack common in fencing than anything one would use in canne de combat. Regardless, he took a step backwards, triumphant. “Enjolras is nearly as skilled in fencing as he is in singlestick; we often go to lessons together. I’m certain he’s taken it upon himself to excel in every fighting technique he can, and is too practical to overlook any which may be of use.”

Throughout Courfeyrac’s explanation, Grantaire had grown more still, his stance more stiff. “Oh yes,” he said, jerking his head in what was almost a nod of agreement, but not quite. “For your revolution cannot proceed without true fighters.” Grantaire still grinned, but there was something steely behind his eyes. “You must put up a decent resistance before your end; the monarchy might look upon you with more seriousness then.”

The comment was meant to rankle, and so it did. Courfeyrac took another swipe, with rather more force behind it this time, but Grantaire’s deflection of it was half-hearted at best—nothing more than a lazy movement of the arm. Courfeyrac could see the dark cloud gathering on his brow.

Although it was usually Joly and Bossuet who took it upon themselves to chivvy Grantaire back into good humor, Courfeyrac knew his friends too well to be unaware of Grantaire’s bouts of melancholy, and though irritation was once again welling up in his chest, he chose to push it aside once more. Instead, Courfeyrac stood up straight, and preened. “What’s the matter? Have you come to accept that my victory is inevitable?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Your _victory_? That would never happen.”

“We shall see, won’t we? If you are tired of singlestick, how about savate then?” Courfeyrac aimed a kick at Grantaire’s shin, which looked ridiculous enough to make Grantaire laugh again.

“A tempting offer; I don’t think besting you in combat will ever lose its appeal. But no, I’ve changed my mind—I’m tired of fighting.”

“Than do you have any suggestions for alternatives?”

Grantaire looked as though he would have rather retained his sour mood, but he looked up at Courfeyrac’s earnest face and smiled despite himself. “I picked this one. According to your lofty ideas of _égalité_ , it is only fair that you should pick the next.”

Courfeyrac thought a moment, leaning his cane against the wall. “Ah! I think I have just the thing.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, Courfeyrac? Did you learn to dance amongst the upper class as well?” Grantaire, playing the man’s part in the waltz, though Courfeyrac was much taller than he, spun his partner around with a grace Courfeyrac would hitherto not have expected of someone who was so often drunk past coherency.

“Yes and no,” Courfeyrac replied, deftly following wherever he was lead as they turned about the room. “My family has always loved to throw little balls and parties, though you can imagine how old-fashioned the dances featured there would be.”

“I shudder to think,” Grantaire said, making a quick albeit smart turn as they reached the back wall of the room. “Minimal drink—and no waltz, I would expect.”

“Not one! My sisters and I took to practicing it in our rooms, lest we find ourselves behind the times. And indeed, I only perfected the waltz once I had arrived in Paris.”

Grantaire gave another of his crooked smiles. “You learned relatively recently, then. I suppose I should not find that surprising.”

“Do you imply I still do not know how?” Courfeyrac asked, more taken aback than he would have liked to be. “I’ll have you know I am frequently complimented on my dancing abilities, and am often in high demand at Sceaux!”

“By women who wish to charm their way into your bed—or more likely, your coin purse.”

“Is this another attempt to lure me into a competition?” Courfeyrac tried for coolness, but quickly switched from the woman’s to the man’s role in the waltz solely to catch Grantaire off-guard. The ploy worked and his friend stumbled over his own feet, and then laughed.

“Not at all! I have already won at canne de combat—though whether it was truly an equal fight may be debated—and I know when to quit while I am ahead.” Grantaire fell silent for a moment to accustom himself to the unfamiliar footwork of his new part and then added, “Indeed, I should commend you on your idea. As reluctant as I am to deprive the ladies—or other women—of Paris of my presence, I have not bothered to go out to Sceaux or any other dance hall recently, and you’ve saved me the fiacre fare.”

“I would like to think I am good at making the best of a bad situation,” Courfeyrac answered, leading them both in a playful yet elegant spin.

Grantaire’s eyes widened for a moment as he followed the movement and, face a little red beneath his unkempt moustache and whiskers, said, “I must warn you, however, not to blame me if your mistress becomes jealous, should I sweep you off your feet.”

“I am not worried on either front,” said Courfeyrac with wry quirk of an eyebrow. “I am reasonably certain I can withstand your _considerable_ charms, and I have no mistress at the moment who would become jealous should I happen to fail.”

A sharp, undefinable expression crossed Grantaire’s face for a moment, but the look was gone almost instantly. The dance slowed, as if both of them had given up trying to best the other, and Grantaire cleared his throat.

“No mistress? Courfeyrac cold and alone in his bed each night? A tragedy, indeed!”

In truth, it was somewhat unusual for Courfeyrac to settle with one woman, or indeed the occasional man, at a time, though this did not mean he went to bed alone if he did not wish it. He was on the verge of pointing this out to Grantaire, though he realized that perhaps this was not entirely true of late. Instead he said, “Whether you choose to participate or not, you know as well as I do that our Society has been particularly busy for the past few weeks. It is hardly the time to be going out to dance halls and cafés for pleasure. Our nights are taken up by work instead.”

“Ah, more talk of your revolution. Do spare me; I cannot bring myself to care overmuch about how you choose to squander your time.” 

This peeved Courfeyrac enough for him to respond levelly, “I think, perhaps, you care much more than you would like the rest of the world to think.”

“You accuse me of caring about politics? An insult if ever I’ve had one flung at me! If I was unaware of your skills in both fencing and as a marksman, I would demand satisfaction from you. Or perhaps an unconventional contest of singlestick would serve me better, as I would undoubtedly win—unless you feigned incapacitation and chose Enjolras as your second, perhaps. It is fortunate that I do not, in fact, _care_ about anything so much to put myself through the trouble—politics especially.”

Courfeyrac waited for this bluster to be over before he said, “Not politics, no.”

They halted their dance. That same peculiar expression had shown itself again on Grantaire’s face, but this time there was something else behind it, deeper and more heated, and as Grantaire turned his face towards Courfeyrac’s, and as Courfeyrac realized what it might have been, he felt his own face flush despite himself. 

“Perhaps you are right and perhaps you are not,” Grantaire said, sharp and annoyed. “You know what it is like want to keep-“ He made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, and changed the subject before the tension could become palpable. “I will admit, Courfeyrac, if this dance had been a competition, you would have bested me.”

Courfeyrac managed a smile. “Do not sell yourself short; you are almost as skilled at dancing as at canne de combat.”

“You do not need to tell me how much you enjoy having me in your arms—or having me brandish a stick at you,” Grantaire replied, shooting a teasing, filthy look at his friend, though there was something almost sincere behind it. “But come, aristo, teach me one of the dances your parents forced you to learn—the minuet or whatever else you got up to. Perhaps those little _pas menus_ will impress women enough to make them think I am a sensitive soul.”

 

* * *

 

“It appears we have exhausted our entertainment options for the evening. It is as if we are fated to be exceptionally bored.”

After growing tired of singlestick and dancing, the pair had seated themselves, worn out, hair sticking to sweaty foreheads, on one of the larger crates in the center of the room.

Courfeyrac arranged his coat and waistcoat beneath himself, though this did not make his seat much more comfortable. The exercise had made him inclined more towards cheerfulness than exasperation at this point, and he said, “Well, then? You have proven yourself more than adept at coming up with suggestions this evening. What else do you do when you are _exceptionally_ bored?”

“Drink! Haven’t you been paying attention all these years?”

“And when there isn’t wine available?”

“Absinthe. Or stout or brandy-“

“And when there isn’t any of that either?” Before Grantaire could respond with more absurdities, for despite skirting melancholia that evening, the dancing and singlestick had finally chivvied him into a teasing mood, Courfeyrac added: “Nor food, nor any way of leaving to find better company?”

“Was that a jab at me or at yourself?”

“Whichever you wish it to be. Well?”

Grantaire thought for a moment, and then his face broke into a lewd grin.

Courfeyrac smiled. “I’m sorry I asked!”

“Well, hold a moment and hear me out.” Grantaire leaned back on the crate on one hand, an eyebrow raised. “I was under the impression, my good and dear fellow, that you are a man who is not only well-versed in social niceties, but who also knows how to treat his partner after a romantic night.”

“What?” Courfeyrac gave a surprised laugh. “How on earth would this be considered a romantic night? The sparse lighting and solitude I will grant you, I suppose, but how else? Please note that I ask you this against my better judgement!”

Grantaire shrugged, his grin shifting from filthy to merely wry. “As you said. We have been alone together, bathed in soft lighting all evening. We have conversed; we have even danced.”

“And practicing canne de combat? Is mock-fighting your idea of a romantic evening?”

“You have read more insipid romances than anyone I know, including all the women. Is there not always a period at the beginning of such tales during which the two lovers engage in amusing activities to make it somewhat more believable that they should jump into bed together—or into hayloft, pantry, or empty parlor? It is true, perhaps, that this does not involve singlestick, but I thought you revolutionaries were not such slaves to convention.”

“I wouldn’t say I am!”

“Propriety, then?” Grantaire laughed, the sound harsh in the silent room. “Surely not!”

“Perhaps it would do you well to retain _some_ vestiges of propriety,” Courfeyrac said lightly, though he could feel heat creep up his neck.

Grantaire grinned again, and set a hand on the inside of Courfeyrac’s thigh. “I have lost that battle long ago.”

Knowing it to be a teasing gesture, Courfeyrac had it in mind to ignore the hand, but to his surprise, something seemed to stir in the pit of his stomach. He froze. Grantaire perceived this and stilled as well; his expression still held the vestiges of mirth, but that same near-seriousness rose up again behind it.

“You say you have no mistress. How lonely your nights must be.”

Courfeyrac made a great effort to steady his voice, but could not quite manage it. “I should think I could get along well enough without one.” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “After all, there are certain people who go through life in such a state.”

“You mean Enjolras, of course, not me!”

“Of course.”

With the continual pressure on the inside of his thigh, Courfeyrac was discovering that his ability to remain blasé was quickly fading. He  could not decide whether this odd half-teasing, half-serious tone of dancing around what was inevitably going to happen between them was appealing or maddening. Either way, Courfeyrac made the decision to press on for the both of them and shifted slightly, tilting his hips just-so, half-hoping Grantaire understood the hint. The hungry look was back in Grantaire’s eye—for that is what had been there even before, _hunger_ , and the deeper and more desperate need to hold on to something he very well might lose. He moved his hand incrementally higher.

“Poor, poor Courfeyrac without a mistress. Look at the state of you.” His hand nearly reached the juncture between Courfeyrac’s legs, and passed over his cock, lying half-hard against his thigh. Courfeyrac took a sharp yet silent breath, though even without the sound it was plain that Grantaire noticed. Somehow, his voice was almost nonchalant when he posited, “This is one way to pass the time. What do you say?”

Courfeyrac felt his own cock twitch, trapped between his thigh and Grantaire’s warm palm. Grantaire, who of course felt this as well, smiled knowingly. A moan welled up in Courfeyrac’s throat, but he swallowed it. “If it will get you to stop talking.”

Grantaire squeezed his hand with a gentle but inexorable pressure, and this time Courfeyrac was unable to quiet the gasp this drew from him. Somehow, Grantaire’s smile became less lopsided—it was very nearly sincere. “I know just the remedy for that,” he said, and slid off the crate to kneel on the floor in front of Courfeyrac, sitting back on his heels.

It was such a rare thing for Courfeyrac to feel so utterly out of his depth that his head was swimming as he positioned his legs a little wider, giving Grantaire enough room to settle between them. With a glance up at him, Grantaire made quick work of the buttons at the front of Courfeyrac’s trousers to free his cock.

“So, this is what has gotten half the women of the Latin Quarter to sing their praises, eh?” Grantaire said. Courfeyrac seriously considered giving him a good kick before he could either agree with or mock these sentiments—either way, Courfeyrac did not particularly want to hear it in his current position—but thankfully Grantaire, for once, did not elaborate. Instead, gripping Courfeyrac’s hips in his hands, he bent his head and in one fluid movement, took Courfeyrac’s cock into his mouth.

Courfeyrac was grateful, then, that here at least Grantaire did not tease. His ministrations were warm, _insistent,_ and in a matter of minutes Courfeyrac found himself out of breath, his fingernails digging into the wood as he gripped the edge of the crate—the only thing anchoring him to his senses. In front of him, Grantaire let go of Courfeyrac’s hips briefly to work his own trousers open and pull out his cock, hard and thick in his hand. Courfeyrac watched as Grantaire drew his fingers slowly up the shaft of it, his thumb playing over the head in slow but firm circles until it shone wet in the lamplight’s golden glow.

The sight unexpectedly made the heat twist in the pit of Courfeyrac’s stomach, and he could not help but press his hips forward. His hands left the edge of the crate to rest instead on Grantaire’s shoulders, steadying them both as Grantaire bobbed his head, stroking himself in time.

Unlike the other skills he had demonstrated earlier that evening, Grantaire lacked finesse here, but this almost ended up being used to advantage. Courfeyrac found himself on the very edge of climax again and again, wanting desperately to surrender himself to that abyss, only to be pulled back from it by Grantaire shifting his stance on the ground, or switching his rhythm at exactly the wrong moment. Courfeyrac gripped the shirt fabric over Grantaire’s shoulders, tugging as he squeezed his eyes shut and arched forward with an impatient groan.

“ _Ohh,_ how can you be so frustrating even _now?”_

This came out in a more accusatory tone than Courfeyrac had meant it, but from the look Grantaire flashed at him—the oddest mixture of mischief and headiness—he understood him perfectly. With his free hand, Grantaire pushed at Courfeyrac’s inner thigh, spreading his legs wider, and sped his pace. A moment later, overwhelmed by sensation, Courfeyrac came, biting his lip hard to stifle any noise that might escape him, his whole body shaking with the intensity of it. Swallowing, Grantaire pulled off him and leaned his forehead against Courfeyrac’s hip, the fabric muffling his rough moan as he gave a shudder and came onto the dusty ground, stroking himself until he was spent.

A minute or two passed before Grantaire managed to drag himself up to sit on the crate again, not bothering to follow Courfeyrac’s lead in buttoning his trousers closed, and leaned amicably against his companion.

“Well, there you are then,” he said simply, as though punctuating an earlier point.

A short while later, fully dressed now and still hidden by the dark of early morning, the pair at last dared to unlock the cellar door and peer out, listening hard for any signs of danger. Finding none, they started off again in the direction of their lodgings.

They were silent for a time, though as Courfeyrac had learned throughout his years of knowing him, Grantaire always ensured that silence was a transient thing. Instead of the teasing or ribald comments that he had been expecting, however, Courfeyrac merely received a wry glance as Grantaire caught his eye and said, “Not a _complete_ waste of my night, eh?”

All Courfeyrac could manage then was an incredulous little laugh.


End file.
